There was a world of gratitude in Dixon’s staring eyes. A faint smile played over the pain-worn face.
“You’ve got to make knots to get back. Graydon. Get that copy. Destroy it.”
“I’ll tear it to bits within a few hours, Dixon. Sent a radio to the admiral through the legation. Signed your name,” he hastened to reassure him.
Approval, sheer and complete, shone through the dulled eyes of the dying man.
“Good lad!” he whispered. His hand sought Stanley Graydon’s.
He fell into a heavy stupor. At his side Stanley Graydon waited. The weak fingers relaxed. The sun was low over Ramona Bay. The thunder of guns came into the still room.
Stanley Graydon stepped lightly to the open windows. There, in the sunlit distance, the gray ships of the squadron were at anchor. The note of a bugle came faintly on the wind. He stepped back to the bed. If only Dixon could have lived long enough to grasp the significance of the flagship’s measured salute! Dixon’s eyes were fixed in the glaze of death. His tortured soul had found its anchorage.
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the July 7, 1927 issue of The Popular Magazine.